


Rain Wakes Me (The Social Network Remix)

by casey_sms (shinygreenwords), shinygreenwords



Category: American Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, The Social Network RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinygreenwords/pseuds/casey_sms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinygreenwords/pseuds/shinygreenwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These days, Andrew only touches Jesse when they're on the red carpet or doing interviews, when the cameras are rolling and they can both excuse the slip of Andrew's fingers along the cuff of Jesse's shirt as something that belongs to two different people entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain Wakes Me (The Social Network Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rain Wakes Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/66296) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> I draw heavily on the original story with the same title by [](http://spiny.livejournal.com/profile)[**spiny**](http://spiny.livejournal.com/) who has kindly and generously given me permission to remix her. If so much is from her, it is because she is brilliant and everything I hope to be. I cannot recommend it more highly. It’s one of my favorite BBC Merlin Actor RPF fics of all time that I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read it. She also introduced me to the beautiful poem, [Late Night](http://community.livejournal.com/greatpoets/1018775.html), by Margaret Atwood from which the title of her fic comes from. I have never remixed before so I hope I do it justice.

These days, Andrew only touches Jesse when they're on the red carpet or doing interviews, when the cameras are rolling and they can both excuse the slip of Andrew's fingers along the cuff of Jesse's shirt as something that belongs to two different people entirely. (Two people that are still estranged and on opposite sides of the world). Eduardo's hands (and gaze and breath and shoulders) find contact with Mark in a hundred casual ways, a thousand little collisions, variables of codes executed with precise strokes. The truth is, Andrew has not touched Jesse for months.

That is because Andrew is no longer allowed to do so.

(He wonders if Mark misses Eduardo, if he’s tried to speak with him since, tried to apologize but it doesn’t matter. They’ve moved on. It was just a movie.)

*

Six months ago Jesse had gone from pushing his tongue into Andrew's mouth, slow and dirty and deep, to looking serious and saying _not really professional, though, is it,_ to looking away whenever Andrew came near. Seemingly this change happened overnight; no, quicker, much quicker, as though Andrew had been the one that was wired in. A non place where time was counted by the amount of screenings, exclusive interviews and award nominations that passed by like status updates on a news feed. All the while the real world was whipping by without his even knowing. A blink, a smash of the laptop and it was done.

 _Stupid_ , he tells himself. _Stupid_.

He knows it didn't happen that way. It's just that he missed something, which is ludicrous really, almost funny, because if there was one thing he had been paying attention to all that time it was Jesse fucking Eisenberg, and he's too proud ( _stupid, fucking stupid_ ) now to admit anywhere but the very edges of his mind that he still doesn't know what it was; what he missed. What happened.  
(Like Eduardo, he didn’t see it coming).

*

  
Andrew remembers the second time like this:

"Last night," he murmurs, words tripping over themselves as he hustles Jesse back against the small bathroom counter. "That was — come on, here."

"Last night," Jesse says.

Andrew laughs. "Needs a repeat performance," he replies, perfectly sure. He tugs at Jesse's buttons; if ever there was a need for velcro — his fingers are trembling. Adrenaline, he thinks. Tiredness. Nerves, the type that jangle along his spine whenever Jesse's around, 'cause he can't help but feel like Jesse's got him outclassed at every turn, like Jesse knows something he doesn't. (Like Mark, ten steps ahead of everyone else and he’s getting left behind.)

Jesse's long-fingered hands close gently over Andrew's and hold him still.

"Last night," he says again.

Andrew tries to think, not easy with his dick throbbing in his pants, and the smell of his own sweat in the air, sweat and sweet-cologne, a bottle of Prada for men on the bench by Jesse's hip (Jesse had smiled and tucked it in his Mark backpack). When Andrew looks up, he can see himself in the bathroom mirror and he doesn’t want to think about Eduardo and the inevitability of betrayal.

He remembers last night. He knows every step of how it went. He just doesn't know what Jesse wants.

Andrew focuses instead on Jesse’s brilliant blue eyes. He leans in to kiss him; it seems to be right. Their lips fit together so softly he could moan.

*

  
Sometimes Andrew wakes in the middle of the night with a breathlessness he doesn't like, the room airless and oppressive.

It's always too early to get up and he can't go back to sleep, and outside there's nothing but silence, like he's a million miles from anything, like he's nowhere at all.  
(You had one friend.)

It's unexpected, but Andrew finds himself missing the rough scratch of bristles against his tongue — how it made his balls prickle, how it sent red heat flooding through him everywhere. In his own mouth, now, the sensation hovers just out of reach, his palate too smooth and tasteless, not anything like the sharp, hot, sink-your-teeth-in jolt of Jesse filling him up.

Before, when he was allowed, Andrew would open his mouth against the underside of Jesse's chin while he nudged between Jesse's legs and slipped hands into shadowed places. When he could be Eduardo, the best friend, and he could take care of Jesse, love this Mark like it was all that mattered (he could understand why Eduardo did it for Mark, his Mark). They could act out the one universe in which it turns out okay (he turns up at his door, he forgives him, he loves him and which he is being referred to is irrelevant, lost in a tangle of sweaty limbs).

Jesse arches his neck and squeezes his eyes shut, and Andrew used to think it was because the feeling was so good, but maybe —

*

  
One afternoon, grey with the wind rushing through the buildings of the set, Andrew rounds a corner to see Jesse talking to Emma.

Jesse's thin shoulders are hunched as though he feels the cold, but he manages to shrug them in a casual manner. "It's nothing," he's saying. "It's not — it's nothing."

Andrew goes over to join them, no reason not to, though he's aware of the way his chin is up and his shoulders back; he wishes Spider-Man’s suit had pockets for nonchalant hands. He wishes the suit wasn’t so tight, every line in his body showing. He feels naked.

"Are you okay?" he says, resisting the urge to sit down opposite Jesse.

Jesse's kicking gently at his own left shoe, at the mud drying on the side. (He’s not wearing flip flops.)

"Hey," he replies, looking up briefly. "Emma was just saying, about the costume department, you know. How it caught on fire from a stunt."

"Did it?" Andrew asks dumbly.

"Kim's furious," Emma says, head tilting to give Andrew a strange, knowing look. "I saw her drinking two cups of coffee and swearing her head off. She doesn't even drink coffee."

Andrew thinks about this. "I don't think you can drink out of two cups at the same time. It would spill everywhere."

Emma rubs wearily at one eye. "Not at the same time, Andrew," she says, equally parts sarcasm and fondness.

Jesse smiles and then turns it into a squint, looking out across the empty school campus.

*

  
The thing is, Jesse gets ideas into his head and then won't shake them out again no matter how ridiculous they are. One day, for instance, he will be perfectly happy to push Andrew back onto the bed, slow enough so that Andrew won't fall but his spine will instead curve down in a calculated arc, so that Jesse can put himself over Andrew and their bare chests will push together when they breathe, when they gasp. One day that will be everything.

The next day he'll say, _we shouldn't do this. Listen_ , he'll say, _I just don't think we should_ , and that will be that. Once Jesse decides on something he's set, written in internet ink set, no, carved in bloody marble set, and there's no point trying to change his mind.

So that time Andrew turned up at Jesse’s set (conveniently in New York though New York suddenly feels bigger and darker than the sets he’s using). Andrew caught hold of Jesse’s slender wrist, stepped in close and said, "Look, this is stupid, there's no reason not to; we're just messing around, what harm —" it was useless.

Jesse had jerked his head away and slid his wrist out of Andrew's loosening fingers, interrupting him. He'd said, "Don't. No, we're not doing this anymore."

He'd looked wretched then. "Sorry," he'd added (he’s not Mark, he’s not an asshole), and stepped back and that's where they are, still, six months later, because once Jesse's got an idea in his head that's it. It's there for good.

*

  
The first time was like this: late night, Andrew on his back with his legs dipped to either side and Jesse between them, braced over Andrew with wide-spread hands. Jesse strung taut and rocking his hips forward slowly, slowly, slowly, making Andrew grip hard at Jesse's arms and kiss his throat, their cocks sliding together sweet and hot.

Andrew with his eyes closed, his legs spread wide, his mouth on Jesse's skin; Andrew with his eyes closed while Jesse pressed closer, Jesse's body shaking, Jesse helpless and new saying _please_ , saying _please_ , saying _I want you, I want you, I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> The awesome part about remixing something awesome is that it’s so awesome and you don’t really have to take anything out. The sex in the original is subtle in its brilliance. I don’t really feel all that confident with mine so it was good that I could use [](http://spiny.livejournal.com/profile)[**spiny**](http://spiny.livejournal.com/) 's :) It was my aim to capture the same hurt-y feeling with a TSN feel. I’d like to thank her again for letting me ~~mangle~~ use her work. For more on why I did this and this kind of remix or what I call transfandom translation, I have a meta post [here](http://casey-sms.livejournal.com/197389.html).


End file.
